She had the most beautiful manicure.
At the end of her long tapered fingers, her nails glowed pearlescent silver, small pieces of crystal catching the light with her every gesture, and
even their underbellies were lined

with razor blades.

Some things can’t be cleaned. Some things must be remade
into
smaller pieces.

Only the essential

elements are strong enough

tools for composition.

And what when a fantasy is broken?
What smaller pieces of dream could be used to build anything?
Is there
a
sort of sanity?

What part of sanity could bring back the evaporated promise?

No piece of this dream captured in words,
captured in sound,
captured in form–
could hold the life it lived.

It’s better not to resurrect the dead.
It’s best not to start anything at all.

I’ve been told these things, and yet.

There is a poison I would rather drink,

were it with him.

They say this world is like licking honey from the razor’s edge,
and we must take every part–

the nectar, the blade, the flesh, and the dream.

Forgiveness is not resurrection.

And, like the world,

it does not exist in part.

So when it is impossible–
start cutting,
and do not stop
until the elements themselves

It’s been a while since I have been flattered by such a lovely “muse” moment…

A dear patron of mine, who I’ll call The Professor, is quite a wonderful poet. He is inspired by the Tao and by the play of yin and yang, and also by the playful teasing of a certain dancer who he says bathes the room with her smile. We have the most nourishing and delightful conversations tracking down inspiration, and when he walks through the door, I know he has a pocket full of poetry to share. This piece he gave to me this week to help me feel the healthiness of even a broken heart, and it is just so beautiful I have to share…

Wine, scattered sheets heavy with ink and ambition,
and the flicker of candlelight against restless, prowling thoughts—
only these things keep me warm this night,
and then

the silence
before any words are invented
arrives to embrace me.

Time is
and was
and will be,
and now She takes the form of my favorite dream—
the dream of a white sand beach
where I could alight from my oceanic journey
and glut myself on the richness of coconut and crab—

and while She dances across the tops of the playful waves,

She is strong enough
to pull me along toward her until

we meet, are utterly combined.

I have no choice—so hungry am I for birth
I press myself into her, feeling her slick weight
across my eyelids, pressing down
on my brow, her essence running in streams down either side of my mouth,
carving me like the deepest canyon;

only this
gives any light – even
the moon has turned her face away,
who can be so jealously measured by gain or loss,
and the sky is invisible.

Time is simply as She always was—
that empty canvas,
my sail to catch any wind,
space, itself.

Surrounded by Her
the current does not draw me,
the tide no longer pulls.
Some may think the dream has ended,
for appearances.

But that too, is illusion,
for we in our embrace have touched,
we have felt, we have become.

I’ve been quiet this past year, soaking in teachings and contemplation of path…how best my writing serves my vision and service in the world as a warrior, a dancer, a poet, a muse. I’ve become a servant to the love letter in the meantime, writing in volumes… but less visible to all of us.

But today the light is different. Perhaps now, as September dawns, and the rains are returning to Portland, and the sky seems to be just that perfect shade of sterling gray, perhaps these are just the right ingredients for me to miss that sense of contact I get when I reach out across wider space. Perhaps someone in particular feels far away, or the stage upon which I dance and play feels a little more groundless, a little more like spreading my wings without hope or fear of landing.

Today I want to share a love poem–part of a series I have been creating–that taps into a certain quality we all have inherently, that which defies convention without even trying. This points to the type of love born when strangers meet and as each looks into the other, they leap. This points to the type of love that we create as we navigate each day, when the most familiar beloved becomes fresh once more, and we fall…without hope or fear of landing. xx S

Lover, you
are the breath of freshest air.

The wind that is my ground,
the space that is home—
it’s everything.

Meeting can be touching
a golden leaf falling across your face.

It’s the end of sumer and I wish to stretch
against the world.
I press my belly to the sky as blue as your eyes,
and arch my back.
I feel the points of my hips
and the spaces between my ribs stretch.
I feel how wide my heart can be—
We are all part of the same anatomy.

Sometimes we caress the truth with our bare hands.
Sometimes we need a pen, or
a knife.
We are also survivors and refugees.

Repetition can be a tragedy—we’ve seen it
crumble dignity.
Yet it is also the key to becoming.
Be here with me.
Let’s be brave, and I promise we’ll discover who we are.

Lovers and warriors make a habit of toasting
because we feel the fortune of having bodies.
We feel the breeze against our skin.
History has created us, just as we create it,
which is why, my love,
I will drink to your journey a thousand times and more.

And how exactly does a love letter begin?
I think it must start long before
my darling, my dearest, my love

It starts in the morning, always.
It starts with awakening. And it starts with a moment of beauty.

Today is a grey day, no less beautiful for the cloud cover.
My shoulder is pinched, though no less beautiful for the pain.

My lover is perfect– last night as I held him
I realized,
with something like aching and something like awe,
the profound wish in my heart for his every happiness,
victory, and success.
I wished wildly that he would never be hurt,
never grow sick.

And then I had a flash, a sort of waking dream, that once set in motion could not be unseen, stopped or brushed aside– it was him on the train tracks, his form heavy, cold and limp in a sort of terrible parody of the damsel so easily plucked from distress. I pounded on his solid chest, and cried until all that was left was the heartbreaking effort of not being able to move him from the path of the oncoming train. I felt the scream rise from my gut and jerk through my limbs as I chose to throw my body from his, and he
exploded in a burst of blood and light.

This is the type of horror that love imagines.

There is a wisdom that says I have been everything to you, both intimate and strange, throughout the expansive multiverses of time and space—
I smile at these fantasy memories of us: myself your lover, your oldest friend, your child’s mother, your pretty bride, your teacher, your beloved parent, your rescuer, your refuge, your guide. I sweep more quickly past the others: your bully, your tormentor, your killer—

our eyes have met across every possible circumstance.

I think we all know the awful contemplation of losing someone over and over, and the pain that is both intuitive and immediate as we reach out again and again.

It might be possible we were born wishing for one another.
By now you seem so familiar it’s easy to imagine with you my Love,
the lifetimes we’ve spent making vows

and there is a note of electricity in your voice, the prickling of supernatural truth– like the one we feel whispering love spells for the first time, or as the drum beat quickens and the brass begins to blare–
when you tell me,
“I finally found you again. It took so long this time.”

There is a beautiful need in the way you say
I want you,
I want you,
I want to keep you, and take care of you.

It makes me understand the preciousness of the time we have left together.
It breaks my heart, and fills it with love.

is always composing arrangements:
Piles of this and that, strewn heaps
of clothing on the floor,
an open window, and how it frames
the light.

My mind
is composing the arrangement of bodies
in space,
or the features of my face.

I am composing the arrangement of our bodies
and how— though this is already infinite auspicious display—
I long
for your lips to be so close to mine, I could feel your breath
move,
could feel your life.

And then I long for there to be no space between us at all–
only all around and through–
Because when we are one
we touch so much more of heaven— and I can feel it
pouring down us in torrents so vast,
so all penetrating, no one
could
stand it, were we
not so firmly rooted
to Earth.